The Apple Tree by the Swings

We swing on swings to reach apples.
Each pump throwing us higher into
the shady leaves, while we try to punt at
the red robins. Back down to my mom
each time, begging her for more. Hours
and hours, adding up to days, pass by
and I always return to her and she
always keeps me going. The rickety,
rusted chains stain the creases of my
fingers with sweat and excitement.
This apple is mine. At the highest
point I twitch as I let my left hand
off of a safety and grasp for the glittering
red tasty treat. An arrow of sunlight
cracks through the tree onto the fruit’s
surface, creating a spotlight for the
natural artwork. I swear I’m a breath
away from having it. I grip the chain
again and become a pendulum towards
the lawn my dad just mowed. Hands like
jets shoot into my shoulder blades, again.

But as I grow taller and taller
it seems as though the apple
is only getting further and further
away. Or maybe the swing is
shrinking, playing tricks with my head.

But as I grew taller and taller,
my mom could only watch from
her wheelchair. And the wood
from the playground rots and
molds on rainy days. Eventually,
there won’t even be an apple to grab.